


His Sunday Mother

by braindelete



Category: Iron Man (Comic), Marvel 616
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Minor Character Death, Tony Stark Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 03:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/657438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braindelete/pseuds/braindelete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A companion to To You, The Good Life and Me exploring Tony's relationship with his mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Sunday Mother

The sanctuary smelled of melting beeswax and the hint of the flame burning through the wick. Sunlight danced along the floors, the pews and poppet tinted through the Saints on the stained glass windows. The uncomfortable feeling of hard wood on his soft behind made him shift in his seat against the feeling of numbness. His feet were nowhere near long enough to reach the floor, so they dangled freely over the side the end of the pew and he swung them, watching the light catch his shiny black shoes.

Maria Stark rested her hand on his knee, causing his fidgeting to cease instantly. She looked down at him through her mantilla lace shawl, her dark eyes soft and warm, a chocolate gaze brimmed with tears. His mother always cried at church but insisted that they were tears of joy. Maria’s long fingers cupped his knee so he would stay still in his seat, her touch a calming wave washing over him. Her other hand was wrapped in the bright azzuro beading and silver of her rosary.

“Sit still, Anthony,” Her voice was soft, hushed.

Tony Stark sat up straight then and focused his eyes on the tall man at the poppet speaking in Latin about the love of Jesus Christ. When she turned her attention back to the sermon, Tony’s eyes drifted to her hands where the rosary glistened with tiny rainbows on the beads, her fingers running over them gently. The silver crucifix with the raised bumps of a silver Jesus hanging loosely from the end, the shining coin with the face of the Virgin etched into it with striking detail; Tony knew it was his mother’s favorite piece of jewelry.

When the sermon finished, Maria did her prayer, her fingers moving swiftly as she crossed herself and finished with an Amen. Tony watched her and swiftly moved to follow suit, but ended up making no gesture that resembled the cross. Maria smiled softly, letting out one of her honey-soft laughs as she picked him up into her arms and his small ones slipped around her neck for security.

"Where shall we go now, poco ingegnere?" She asked him.

Tony grinned. He knew exactly where they were headed to.

"Chocolate milk!"

He wasn’t fond of going to Peacock Alley for Sunday brunch after church. A reception of adults gathered at the Waldorf Astoria’s dining room, all acquaintances of Howard and Maria Stark, a collection of the rich and beautiful, who had picked him up and passed him around since his infant days. The older he grew the more he squirmed at fingers pinching his cheeks and coos of how big he’d gotten or how precious he was. He abided them because his mother asked him to do so, and there was a reward waiting on the table when they finally sat in the form of chocolate milk.

“Mama, can I have French toast?” He asked her, adjusting into the raised seat he’d been strapped into.

Maria put one of the thick cloth napkins into his lap, unfolding it from the elegant fan-fold and spreading it out so that if he were to spill on himself, it wouldn’t get on his black wool dress pants. She took out a restaurant issued bib of soft linen and fastened it around his neck so he wouldn’t spill on the rest of his suit: the black wool jacket, the crisp starched white shirt and little black tie that clipped on. He would often fuss with the tie because the fabric was itchy pressed on his throat. When Tony was prepped for his meal, he watched her neatly fold the mantilla lace shawl on her lap before neatly placing it in her Hermes bag, a ritual he had watched since before he could remember.

“May you. You ask ‘May I have French toast.’ Maria corrected him softly. “You will have a healthy brunch, Anthony. Perhaps afterward you may have some dessert.”

Tony pouted slightly and glanced over his shoulder at the array of goodies spread out like a smorgasbord to tease him with their delectable appearance. He saw many different cakes and sweets wrapped in dainty papers or contained in fine crystal bowls and champagne flutes. He wanted them. If his mother would have let him loose for one minute, Tony would have filled his hands with as many of them as he could.

A stuffy waiter, who looked like a young version of Jarvis, in a white dress shirt, a long black tie and neatly pressed black pants covered by a matching black apron, brought a small glass of orange juice and set in front of Tony on the table. Tony looked up at him with big curious blue eyes and was rewarded a kind smile from the man.

“Thank you for the juice.” Tony said politely.

The waiter grinned, giving him a surreptitious wink “You’re welcome, big guy.”

Maria placed a plate of food before him, next to the little glass of orange juice, covered in assorted foods from the table of delights. Half of an egg sunny side up, a few diced pieces of rosemary roasted chicken breast, two strawberries, two cubes of pineapple and a small helping of roasted potatoes but none of those delicacies interested him. His little fingers wrapped hungrily around a strawberry fruit tart, which he nibbled on greedily.

 

The driver opened the door to the limousine they had ridden in and Tony Stark bolted from the door as if he were a racehorse through the starting gate. His tiny black shoes clacked against the cobblestone walkway toward the front door of Stark House. His mother followed in her son's wake.

The large ornately carved door opened before he reached it, and Jarvis stood there, waiting for the two of them to arrive. When Tony got inside he looked up at the butler with a big grin before looking back to Maria as Jarvis helped the young boy shuck his coat. Maria handed Jarvis her stole as she watched Anthony scamper toward the drawing room. She smiled, slipping one long finger under his suspenders to hold him in place.

“Anthony, you have to change out of your church clothes before you can play. You know the rules.” She said sweetly.

Tony groaned. Another step between him and the contraption he’d been creating in the drawing room. She stroked his neatly combed hair, soothing the small anxious boy again with the simple touch.

“After I change, can I build?” He asked sweetly, giving her his best grin.

“Would you please rephrase the question?” Maria asked.

Tony furrowed his brow, thinking over what he had said and how it could possibly be wrong. Maria smiled when his eyes widened and his face lit up at the prospect of knowing the correct answer.

“May I build? After I change.” He replied with a confident grin.

“You may.”

Maria stood and let him go to scamper up the steps.

The light of the spring Sunday afternoon filled the drawing room with its warmth, inviting the relaxation and ease that the day always promised. It was God’s day of rest and for Tony Stark he would never imagine anything else but lazily building contraptions out of steel pieces.

Maria Stark sat with needlepoint in a rosewood Victorian arm chair with roses carved along the top and covered with a soft cream velveteen cushioning, her legs neatly to the side in a soft pink day dress with three quarter length sleeves, its full skirt that spread out like flower petals. Her long dark hair was unbound, spread over her shoulders in soft spiral curls. His mother only dressed like this on Sunday as the rest of the week she had to be ready to entertain one of his father’s business partners/associates at the drop of a hat. Tony preferred his Sunday mother. Her smile was easier, her demeanor softer and he heard the honey tones of her laugh more frequently.

Tony, now dressed in a little sweater and blue slacks, was hard at work on the construction of his Erector Set Ferris wheel with his attention neatly trained on the finer details. He used his tiny little wrench to make certain that the connections were tightened securely on the base before starting in on the wheel itself. Last Sunday he had completed the Eiffel tower, which had taken him exactly two of the afternoons in the drawing room to complete.

“Mama, how do you say Ferris wheel in Italiano?” Tony asked curiously.

Maria looked up from her work, and smiled softly at her son. She kept an occasional eye on him to be sure he didn’t hurt himself with the toys or wiring of the motor. Tony was a clever boy, so she trusted him not to hurt himself.

“Ruota gigante.” She replied.

Tony repeated in fractured pronunciation. “Ruta gigant.”

Maria smiled. “Very close, poco ingegnere. Try again. Ruota gigante.”

Tony put down his little wrench and came over to his mother. She was about to move her needlepoint aside to pick him up but he preoccupied himself with his little cup of lemonade on the end table. He sipped from the straw before looking at her.

“Ruota… gigante?” His voice was questioning the pronunciation.

She smiled. “Very good.”

Maria reached out and pulled Tony into her lap. The boy squirmed a bit but settled down with his lemonade, content in his mother’s arms. Soon he would be too big to hold on her lap, if he grew anywhere near the height of his father. She would take every moment she could until then to hold him close, her only son, her little engineer.

“Will you build me a castle of bricks, poco ingegnere?” She questioned, tilting her head to the side as she smoothed out his dark waves of hair.

Tony looked up at her, a slight twitch in his face near his nose as he pretended to consider it. At six years old the boy was already turning into quite the personality. He smiled at her and pecked her cheek with a sloppy boy kiss.

“Yes I will, Madre. But first I have to finish the ferries wheel. The… ruota gigante.”

 

Tony Stark- billionaire industrialist with a heart of iron- stood in the lifeless drawing room, staring down at the spring awakening in the garden of his childhood home. On the table beside him was a framed photograph of him with his mother, taken a few months after he was born and she was still in the after glow of new motherhood. Though the picture was black and white, he could see the glow in her cheeks as she looked down at her infant son, the boy that would grow up to be Tony Stark: Iron Man. In his hand, he swirled a glass of scotch that replaced the glasses of lemonade that used to fill his Sunday afternoons.

His mind was on memories of Italian words and the soft exotic scent of his mother’s perfume that smelled of spices and flowers. Her fingers in his hair and his little blue slacks that were stained with grease from the toys that he’d built himself, ghosts of a time when he was innocent.

The house wouldn’t be empty much longer. His mother would want it to be loved and cared for the way she had once done. Maybe he’d even hire a gardener to nurse her rose bushes back to their former luster.

“Master Tony,” a voice interrupted his reverie.

“Jarvis,” Tony turned from the window.

“Doctor Pym and Ms. Van Dyne have arrived.” Jarvis told him.

Tony sucked back the last of his drink before setting aside the glass to be retrieved at a later time. He gave Jarvis a nod.

“Well, I suppose I should say hello.” He grinned.

Tony straightened his shoulders a bit before he set his stride for the door, Jarvis already heading down the hall. He glanced only momentarily at the castle built of blocks in the corner of the room, the colors faded a bit from age, yet dusted and polished as if it was used every day, thanks to Jarvis. It’d been there since he was six years old, the last thing he built in the drawing room with his mother on a Sunday afternoon.

**Author's Note:**

> Italian to English guide: Azzuro – Light blue  
> Ruota gigante – ferris wheel  
> Poco ingegnere – Little engineer  
> Madre - Mother


End file.
